


Crash Landing

by Siaht



Category: Sports RPF, Tennis RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Aliens, M/M, MIB!au, Men in Black - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-02-11 23:10:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12946047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siaht/pseuds/Siaht
Summary: When you're destined to save the world alone, you may end up choosing to die together instead.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbetaed, but I did my best.

The black sedan is supposed to be nondescript, but Roger thinks it looks very suspicious parked all by itself, at night, across a seemingly empty and poorly lit park. Police officers know better than to knock on his car window to check who’s inside, but the rare passerby always extends an inquiring glance in the general direction of the car, probably wondering if there’s a crime waiting to happen. Technically there is; he’s there to prevent it, though.

“Nothing yet?”

The man on the other end of the call, Milos, sounds as tense as Roger has learned to expect from him when he’s doing the monitoring from the base. He’s young and relatively new to the organization, and from what Roger has gathered greatly prefers lab work. It’s unusual for the new guys to favor being stuck in a room with microscopes, chemicals and test subjects, without any contact with the outside world. Most of them seek the thrill of the hunt, even if it’s from an underground room several kilometers away from the real action, not that there’s been any recently. Then again, he could be a little jaded, which wouldn’t be all that surprising after almost two decades.

But frankly, Roger has seen far more eventful nights in his time.

He surveys the vicinity one more time and shakes his head as if Milos could see.

“No. You see anything?”

Milos hums, the sound entering Roger’s ear from the bluetooth gadget he’s got lodged in there, and making him a bit uncomfortable with how close it feels.

“No. Will you wait?”

Roger chuckles quietly, the sound most likely not picked up by the mic. He almost doesn’t have the patience for such silly questions anymore.

“Yes.”

Everybody thinks Roger Federer is above routine patrolling, and in a way they are right. At this point in his career he could be recruiting younger, more excitable people to do the hard work for him while he sits in front of the Comm and sips coffee. Rod, the boss, wouldn’t have objected to it; he has in fact given Roger free pass to make the transition if he wanted. But that would kill him faster than any alien could, and he doesn’t trust anyone to be more effective than him on the streets anyway. Roger knows every nook and cranny of this city better than he knows the palms of his hands.

What he doesn’t know is what is taking this Krylian so long to show up.

He huffs, looks at his watch and out the window again. He’s got all night, but that doesn’t mean he wants to be stationed there that long. He just wants to take the stray alien back with him to the base to be soon shipped back whence it came.

Through the gadget in his ear he can hear Rod joining Milos at the monitoring room.

“Hey Rod, what are the chances this guy’s got his hands on some PBZ?”

“Andy says none,” Rod answers promptly, and Roger is not surprised he’s already checked that possibility. Rod is always one or two steps ahead of everybody, result of at least twice as many years as Roger has in that line of work. Roger believes he’s finally closing that gap though, which’s either a consequence of him getting even better or Rod getting even older.

“Is he sure? I’ve been here for two hours, he should’ve showed up already if he didn’t get what he wanted yet.”

“Warhol has every supplier under his watch. Or so he says.”

Roger chuckles again, actually amused this time.

“Tell Warhol I’m gonna put laxatives in his milk if he doesn’t get this right.”

Rod only laughs as a response to that, which Roger hears along with some quick typing sounds most likely produced by Milos.

“Found him,” Milos announces in a low, intense tone.

Roger perks up immediately but sees nothing, or at least nothing that resembles a Krylian. There is, however, a slightly hunched figure approaching the sidewalk across from him; a man in a grey hoodie and leaf green shorts, and at his feet a small black dog without a leash on.

That’s very bad timing from the guy.

“Shit,” Roger curses, alarmed. “Where’s he, Milos? Is he coming this way?”

“He entered the park through north. He’s undressing.”

“I hope he’s not hungry,” Rod says, and Roger can just imagine his deadpan. Making light of perilous situations is one of the things that has brought him this far, but although Roger admires it, he himself can’t be that flippant.

“Is that a dog?” Milos asks, probably only seeing it after the boss’ remark.

“For now,” Roger replies as he gets out of the car, and maybe he’s got more of Rod’s dark humor in him than he presumed.

He crosses the street in a light jog, but the guy and his dog have already managed to escape his sight. There’s a short flight of grimy steps leading into the unguarded southwest entrance, followed by an irregularly paved path lined by trees, benches and scarce lampposts. Roger knows the path leads into a small open area east of where he is, and from there several other paths can be taken, either back to the entrance Roger used or onto the one the alien did.

He fully expects to find the man and his dog as he reaches that area, having seen pet owners use it for recreation during the day. But apparently that is not the guy’s intention going there, since the lawn is deserted.

“I lost them,” he says, observing the green carpet glistening under both the artificial and natural lights. “Are they going back?”

“No, they’re heading north.”

Roger groans.

“Can you tell which path they took?”

“Just a second…” Milos trails, and Roger for some reason imagines him squinting at the monitor screen, tracing the stranger’s route back to him. “Okay, path at 2 o’clock.”

The jog now is far more urgent, the sound of his steps largely enhanced by the silence otherwise. Roger feels like anyone in the perimeter of the park can hear him, but he can’t afford to be sneaky; he absolutely needs to reach the guy and his dog before they bump into the alien.

“Roger, the Krylian is moving. They’re gonna meet before you get to them at this rate.”

If anything, Milos now has a pretty legitimate reason to sound so tense.

“Oh boy.” Rod chirps, definitely entertained.

Roger runs faster in response, determined not to let that poor dog become alien dinner, and if possible not have to use the neuralizer on its owner either. He vaguely wonders if he is still as fast as when he was about 15 years younger, fresh off the MIB training, hitting the streets with his glorious long hair and raw fearlessness, like a lion in a concrete jungle. The answer is no, obviously, but he never feels like his age is too much of a burden except in physically demanding situations like this, which fortunately for him are much rarer now than back then. Roger is fit, works out every day at the organization’s fitness center, plays sports and eats healthy, but time is catching up despite his best efforts.

It’s got nothing to do with his age though when a particularly uneven patch of ground makes him trip and fly easily 2 meters forward; he lands sideways on his arm, the expensive fabric of his black suit dragging on the concrete pavement like cheese on a grater.

“Fuck!” He cries, barely able to register any pain over the worry that takes over him.

“Roger, you—whoa.”

“Ooooooh boy. I’m sending the van.”

At first Roger thinks that’s Milos’ and Rod’s respective reactions to his tumble, but he soon realizes there’s something else going on when he hears a distant roar that sounds entirely too human. He struggles to get on his feet again, glad that there’s no sign of injury to his limbs or hip, and resumes jogging awkwardly to where the man and his dog must have encountered the Krylian.

The guttural noises only get louder and louder with every step he takes, and Roger is desperate to find out what is going on. He forces himself to move faster, and that’s when his left hip twinges. He winces.

“This is unbelievable,” Milos says, certainly to himself, and his stunned tone is unlike anything Roger’s ever heard from him.

His J2 is properly holstered on the inside of his jacket, and Roger reaches for it as soon as the familiar figures of the hooded guy and the Krylian enter his view, except the hood has dropped back from the man’s head and the alien has almost completely disappeared behind him. The dog, however, is nowhere to be seen. He hopes the scene will start making sense once he approaches them but it doesn’t; instead Roger comes to a halt a few meters away from the action and, incredulous, never really grabs his gun.

All the growling that had sounded so human to him is indeed coming from the man, who is towering over the alien and has an entire arm shoved down its mouth, which’s just a toothless hole atop its flat base. Without the mandatory human disguise, Krylians look like chopped tree branches, very thin ones like bamboos. However, this one is engorged, looking more like a trunk than a stick; it’s a sign that it found food, the only type it ingests on Earth: dog meat.

But apparently it messed with the wrong person’s pet.

“Hey, you! Get away from there, that creature is dangerous!” Roger shouts at the man who completely ignores him, leaving him no option but to engage in the action and take the man out of there himself. He isn’t supposed to kill the Krylian, but then again he never expected such interference. Push comes to shove, the human life is undoubtedly his priority.

He gets to run a few steps closer to the two before something catches his attention and he stops again, mouth slowly going ajar. Roger narrows his eyes, zeroing in on the man’s bare ankles which are shining an intermittent blue light in the shape of big hollow diamonds, like a blinking glow-in-the-dark tattoo.

His heart skips a few beats.

“Rod, are you still there?” He asks calmly despite himself, feeling like the air has been knocked out of his lungs. 

“He’s not,” Milos answers quickly. “What do you need?”

Roger only shakes his head in response, cursing under his breath and deciding to let it go for now. He needs to do something about the tussle going on right before him, so he sprints toward them almost unable to look away from the slow blinking blue light.

Only when Roger finally reaches the two he realizes the man has shoved his other arm down the Krylian’s throat, and is pulling something, most likely his dog, from inside the alien. His grunts sound wild and pained, and Roger figures that the Krylian must have sunk its inner teeth into his arms.

“You’re crazy, let it go! He’s going to rip your arms off!”

“No! Is my dog! Is eating my dog!”

The alien’s bellowing is just as loud and disturbing, and Roger is flabbergasted at this stranger. He’s sorry for the potential damage to the guy’s arms and he doubts the dog is even alive at this point, but his act of bravery, albeit bordering on foolishness, is still impressive.

“Help me! I can’t pull!” The stranger cries, and Roger feels like he has one millisecond to decide what to do before something really bad happens.

He takes two steps back, draws out the J2 and shoots at the limbless bottom of the alien, where he is sure not to hit the man’s arms in the process. The roaring goes up exponentially, both from the Krylian and the man, who seems to be finally managing to pull the dog out as the creature opens its mouth wider. But it still isn’t quite enough, so Roger shoots three more times and now the Krylian’s internal muscles fully loosen up, freeing the dog and the guy at once. The guy falls back violently, the dog and his arms covered in blood, and it’s difficult to determine whose exactly.

“Nene? Nene?” The stranger calls in a broken voice, but the dog doesn’t move. Roger’s eyes fall on the man’s ankles but they aren’t flashing anymore. He purses his lips and turns to the alien agonizing on the ground. It doesn’t bleed like humans; instead a liquid similar to sap oozes from its gun wounds, getting rapidly absorbed by the soil. Roger can’t tell just from the watery liquid whether or not the alien had ingested paclobutrazol, popularly known as PBZ, but the lab team will surely be able to determine that once they get samples from it.

“Milos, is the van coming?” He asks, knowing the young agent had been watching everything.

“Yes, should be there in five minutes or less.”

As the Krylian gradually loses its life, their surroundings become quiet again. Roger looks at the guy on the ground, who looks back at him with consternation on his face. He appears to be young, his shoulder-length brown hair matted and wet, and Roger expected him to be crying but he isn’t. He’s motionless, perhaps waiting for him to say something. He doesn’t seem to be in pain either, although the sleeves of his hoodie have been ripped off at his quite large biceps and his arms show lacerations that have, luckily, ceased bleeding by now.

“I’m sorry about your dog.” Roger says genuinely, even though he doesn’t care much for pets. The man continues to stare at him, and his silence actually starts making Roger uncomfortable. “Medics will be arriving soon, if there’s anything they can do to save your dog, they will. They’ll take care of your wounds too.”

“She is not live anymore,” the man finally speaks, tone heavy with resignation, gazing down at the lifeless animal in his arms. Roger can’t really argue with that so he averts his eyes, which once again search the guy’s ankles for any sign of what he’d seen earlier, but there is none.

Turning around and walking a few steps away from the stranger, Roger takes his hands to his hips and sighs. Now that his adrenaline is going down they’re beginning to hurt, but he isn’t too concerned, not about that anyway. He has a decision to make and it has to be before he neuralizes the man. Or doesn’t. There’s a lot to consider and he doesn’t know where to start.

He can’t shake off the feeling that there’s got to be something different about this guy, and this is besides the fact that he could be what the organization has been looking for over the last 50 years. Roger can’t be too sure, and given that he is the only witness to what happened, it‘s going to be difficult to prove that he saw what he saw unless it happens again. He has no idea what could trigger it a second time though, and it really doesn’t seem like the guy is even aware of it. In fact, he seems very oblivious despite his heroism.

Frowning, Roger goes back to him and he looks up again, not moving an inch otherwise.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Rafael.”

“Do you live nearby?”

“Yes.”

Roger nods after his monosyllabic answers. This Rafael guy surely isn’t the chatty type, and all that does is intrigue him more.

“Do you realize what just happened here at all? What you did?”

“I do something wrong?” Rafael winces, and Roger can’t help but chuckle and shake his head. This is all a little too bizarre.

“No. I mean, you could be dead right now but technically you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Rafael keeps eyeing him intently as though he’s trying really hard to understand what he’s saying. The minor mistakes and the thick accent when he speaks aren’t lost on Roger, and those coupled with his name tells him Rafael probably isn’t from here originally. So maybe he is having trouble understanding him, after all.

“You weren’t scared?”

Rafael raises his left eyebrow like that’s a really dumb question, and Roger is almost offended.

“I’m no scared. If monster try to eat person you love, you no try to save?”

Roger does a double take, frowning deeply.

“Monster? You believe in monsters?”

Rafael shrugs and looks away.

“I no know what is that thing.”

“Wow,” Roger says before he can catch himself. He really doesn’t want to say this guy is stupid, but he doesn’t know another word for it either. Innocent, maybe? Yeah, that sounds like a better assumption to make of a complete stranger. Roger still thinks he’s more than meets the eye, though.

Just when he opens his mouth to ask more questions, a horde of agents emerge from the same path that the Krylian had taken to get there earlier. They come bearing two stretchers, body bags and medkits, and while half of them rush to the alien the other half flock Rafael and his dead dog.

Roger feels a hand wearing a medical glove briefly touch his shoulder.

“Looks like you finally got some action,” the man, Andy, teases him as he walks past, pulling the glove on his other hand. Roger doesn’t mind his witty remark, even though his British accent and monotone make him sound extra douchey. He just keeps watching as his suited colleagues work on Rafael’s wounds. A woman crouches in front of him and very gingerly asks if she can take his dog and he nods, visibly saddened. Roger finds he feels really bad for him and he’s not comfortable with that feeling.

He doesn’t think he has any more business here, but before taking his leave he calls Andy over. The man eyes him curiously at first, then makes his way to him.

“Don’t neuralize him,” Roger says quietly when he’s close enough.

“What? Why?”

“I need him to remember me. Don’t neuralize him and don’t let anyone do it, okay?”

“Roger, you’re ancient but you’re not my boss.”

“Only because I chose not to be.”

“Well then, tough luck, buddy,” Andy scoffs and Roger glares at him a little, but then he cracks open a smirk and pats Roger on the shoulder again.

“Just messing with you, I got it. But if he causes problems it’s all on you,” he warns as he goes back to his ensemble. Roger is confident that won’t be the case.

He starts making his way back to his car at last, but there’s just one more thing he needs to make sure of.

“Milos, do me a favor.”

“Sure?”

“Keep monitoring this guy when he leaves.”

“Um, okay.”

No questions asked, just the way he likes it.

 

Back at the headquarters the hall is busy as ever: aliens and humans and aliens disguised as humans, going to and fro everywhere in the huge three-story underground building. The Comm is located on a platform right at the center, and when Roger arrives he sees Rod there talking to the Krylian representative on Earth, who resides in China along with almost all their kinsfolk in the planet. Dressed, which’s how the agents refer to aliens wearing the human disguise, she looks like your average Chinese woman, nothing to suggest that she isn’t what she appears to be. But if Roger were asked, he’d say she looks a bit younger now than when he last saw her, a good year or so ago.

As he approaches from behind Rod, the woman on the large screen smiles cordially at him.

“Hello, Roger,” she bows her head.

“Hello, Shang Ji,” Roger mirrors the gesture respectfully.

Rod turns at him with a smile too, apparently glad that he’s back.

“I apologize for one of ours causing you trouble. We’re working to prevent any other attempts to smuggle PBZ back to our planet.”

“Yeah, it’s the second time just this month, huh?” Roger says in a mildly inquisitive tone, and Shang Ji seems to flinch a little, her smile faltering.

“Ah, I’m sure they are putting their best efforts into this matter, right Shang Ji?” Rod intervenes for the woman and she grimaces at him, bowing her head again. Roger casts a knowing sidelong glance at his boss, who probably takes notice of it out of the corner of his eye.

“Anyway,” Roger continues, “I’m not sure we’re going to be able to send this one back to you. There were some unforeseen circumstances and he ended up badly wounded.”

“Rod was telling me about that. It is alright. He got what he deserved for his criminal acts.”

Roger nods, sticking his hands into his pockets.

“I’ll keep you posted on his health condition,” Rod says. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to take Roger’s report. Thank you very much for your cooperation as always, Shang Ji.” Rod and the woman bow at each other, and the screen goes dark for a moment before displaying its usual information, which include an intergalactic newsfeed, a world newsfeed, a timetable of arrivals and departures of alien craft and some announcements.

“You’re getting soft, Rod.” Roger teases his boss, who shrugs with an amused, but also acquiescing face.

“Happens to the best of us at my age, don’t worry,” he teases back. “So, is Andy back with the alien yet? Is it alive?”

“I left the scene before them so I don’t know, but the Krylian was not looking good. I’m pretty sure it was already dead when they arrived.”

“Ah.” Rod nods, not particularly troubled by the news.

Roger fidgets uncomfortably as he remembers what he saw, feeling his anxiety build.

“I need you to come to the monitoring room with me. I’ve got something to show you.”

Rod raises his brows, taken aback.

“Sure, let’s go.” 

 

Fifteen years haven’t been enough for Roger to feel any less claustrophobic amidst the eternal hustle and bustle of the base’s main floor. The organization, being the only one of its magnitude in the entire planet, sees a never-ending flow of agents and aliens alike doing all sorts of business, from customs to medical appointments and sometimes even temporary incarceration. There is a better, more secluded and safer place for actual imprisonment of intergalactic outlaws though, its location undisclosed to most.

The other two floors don’t see nearly as much action, which’s precisely why they were chosen for the labs and monitoring room, on the second floor, and the archives and provisional cells on the third, all floors connected by two elevators. On their way to the monitoring room, they notice that Andy’s team isn’t back from the park yet so the labs are fairly empty, Warhol being the lone presence in the main one that he shares with Andy. Or, as Andy would prefer, the one he was forced to share with Warhol because, unfortunately, the Remoolian is as good at science and medicine as he is.

As they pass by the main lab’s entrance Roger stops, pushes the door open and peeks his head inside.

“Did Rod give you my message?” He asks, grinning.

The cat immediately looks up from the encyclopedia-like book he’d been reading on Andy’s desktop to look at Roger, and his expression shows something very akin to amusement.

“No, but let me guess. Salt?” He replies in his nasal and squeaky baritone voice. He feigns boredom but his expression still betrays him. Everybody who works with Warhol has somewhat learned to read his feline face for different emotions.

“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you. I’ll keep it a surprise.”

Warhol rolls his eyes so hard that his head follows the movement.

“Will I ever be allowed to do my job without this kind of pressure,” he laments, hanging his head to emphasize the dejection.

“You call it pressure? I call it incentive,” Roger quips, used to his dramatic performances by now. The alien is actually brilliant at what he does, so it’s not like Roger would ever have to follow through with these little incentives. He cannot guarantee that Andy won’t, though.

Dropping his act now Warhol perks up again, his slim, yellow tail dangling off the desk and lazily swaying from side to side.

“How was it over there? Did you get the Krylian?”

“I did. Stuff happened though. I’ll tell you later, gotta go show Rod something.”

“I’ll just ask Andy.” Warhol turns his attention back to the book, and Roger can swear he raises an imaginary eyebrow disdainfully. He chuckles and closes the door, Rod patiently waiting for him to be done chatting with the cat.

“He hates it when I leave him hanging.” Roger snickers, receiving another knowing but entertained look from Rod before they continue on to the room at the end of the hall.

A rush of cold air hits them when they swing the double doors open. It’s easily the largest room in the entire place; entering it feels like entering a different building altogether. The circular shape helps increase that feeling, but so do the incredibly high walls and the vast space in the center, occupied only by a sleek-looking oval white table that holds a holographic 3D map of the entire city. Three agents seem to be discussing something by that table, pointing to different spots on it and gesticulating energetically. Roger himself has spent quite a lot of time at that table in the past too, which helped immensely with getting to know every corner of the big megalopolis.

The reason why the temperature is kept so low in there can be seen on the walls: rows and more rows of small built-in monitor screens, split in columns of three by five, all working at the same time. Every set of three columns has a wide, round-shaped work desk in front of it, and two agents monitoring them and their respective computers. There are ten of those tables around the room, which makes for 450 monitors total, obviously all silent.

In fact, the atmosphere in the room is overall quiet. The most prominent sounds are that of fingers typing rapidly on keyboards and rolling chairs skittering on the white-tiled floor. The concentration is almost palpable and no one wants to disturb their colleagues’ work, so talking is kept to a minimum.

The sound of their shoes tapping on the floor as they walk to Milos’ desk do echo throughout the room, but it isn’t loud or distracting enough to take anyone’s eyes off the screens. Milos looks a bit surprised when they stop one on each side of his chair. He’s alone at his work desk at the moment.

“Hey bosses,” the young man greets them, making sure to acknowledge both with a smile. His tall figure is imposing even when he’s seated, head level with Rod’s shoulder. “I’m doing as you told me earlier, Roger.”

“Great, I’ll take a look at it in a second, but first I need you to play the footage from the park for me.”

“From when you got there?” Milos asks, already seeing to it.

“No, play it from when I found the Krylian and the guy.”

“Oookay,” he draws out the word and types away at the keyboard, and soon his computer screen has a still aerial image of Roger at the park watching the alien and Rafael, right before running toward them. When Milos presses play that’s exactly the scene that follows, but the camera pans away as soon as Roger halts again upon seeing the blue light on Rafael’s ankles, which the camera doesn’t show.

Roger’s head snaps around immediately to look at Milos.

“What happened there? Why did the camera move away??” He queries agitatedly, almost forgetting to keep it low.

“I-I thought I saw something move to the north of where you were,” Milos stutters, visibly intimidated.

“Go back,” Roger commands and Milos doesn’t even need to be told where to, as he rewinds the video to the point where Roger stops after running in the direction of the two. The camera is zoomed in on him and the Krylian and Rafael are out of the frame, and when it moves away the image gets motion-blurred so even though it catches them, not much can be discerned.

Roger exhales loudly in frustration.

“I’m sorry, Roger,” Milos apologizes hesitantly.

“There were no other cameras filming this?” Roger asks, running a hand through his hair.

“Not really, the others were on different spots of the park.” He answers, still sounding deeply apologetic.

Defeated, Roger closes his eyes and sighs deeply. He could almost laugh at them blowing their only lead on the whereabouts of the hybrid in five decades. It’s like the universe doesn’t want them to solve that mystery.

“I suppose you can’t show me whatever it was you wanted to,” Rod says, never losing that jovial tone that makes it look like nothing can ever upset him.

“Not today, it seems.” He taps Milos on the shoulder empathetically, as though to assure the agent that he’s not mad at him. “Keep monitoring Rafael, and let me know if you see anything remotely suspicious.”

“Got it,” the young agent replies cautiously after his unintentional slipup.

And then Rod meets Roger’s exasperated gaze.

“Come with me, Roger.” 

 

They end up in Rod’s office, a circular glass room suspended over the main floor that allows him to watch almost everything and everyone. Thankfully the noise from below doesn’t permeate the walls, and they’re able to converse without having to raise their voices, something that has become the norm down there and is one of the reasons Roger hates it. He is a man of silence, composure, focus. The babel of the main hall is like a repellent to him, and come to think of it, it’s probably the reason why he doesn’t want to give up patrolling, for it’s always a good excuse to be alone.

Rod sits down on his leather chair, clasps his hands over his pot-belly and sighs comfortably, as though he couldn’t wait to rest his legs. He must have been standing on his feet most of the day.

“So, what happened over there that got you like this?”

Roger doesn’t sit; instead he leans forward with his hands on the back of one of the chairs facing Rod’s desk.

“This Rafael guy that was trying to save his dog. I,” Roger pauses, because apparently enough time has passed that the idea already seems absurd. But he ought to tell Rod. “I think he might be the hybrid.”

Rod’s almost inexistent eyebrows shoot up and he nods in silence for a moment, staring blankly in Roger’s direction.

“What did you see?” He asks when he comes to again.

“His ankles were flashing a blue light. Isn’t that the sign?”

“Yes, that is one of the signs. But are you sure you saw that?”

“I am,” Roger answers resolute, although something in the back of his mind continues to question his account like he imagined it all. He wonders why. He’s long past doubting the impossible things he sees as part of his job. “I was hoping the cameras would’ve caught it, but now… I don’t know. That’s why I asked Milos to keep an eye on him.”

“I guess it’s all we can do.”

The fact that Rod is taking this so lightly is weird, but Roger doesn’t question it. There have been too many false alarms in the past for him to still jump at new rumors, even if brought by his very own successor whom he claims to trust with his life.

Nevertheless, Roger can’t help feeling disappointed, and a little bit hurt, that Rod doesn’t seem to be giving him any credit.

“I’ll let you know if anything new comes up.”

“Sure,” Rod smiles amicably. “Go get some rest.”

Roger nods, gives a little tap to the back of the chair he’s been leaning onto, and turns to leave.

They both know resting is out of question. 

 

The building above the headquarters is a luxurious apart-hotel, which the organization uses mostly to accommodate leaders and other important figures who aren’t Earth dwellers. It’s also where Roger has been living for the past 10 years since being promoted to special agent. Currently, he and Rod are the only members of the organization residing there: a privilege to be sure, but also a necessity for the two main authorities who need to be within reach at all times.

There used to be a third one, and tonight Roger can’t seem to stop thinking about him.

He takes a sip of his Scotch blend in front of a burning fireplace, the crackling fire sending him into something of a trance. He rests the tumbler on the seat next to him on the sofa, holding loosely onto the glass, just enough to prevent it from tipping over. His other arm reposes on his belly, and his legs are outstretched. His jacket is flung across the arm of the sofa, and he hasn’t bothered showering or changing into more comfortable clothes yet. Even his shoes are still on.

Every time he feels let down, the memories of Stan come rushing back as if to add to the dogpile. It’s mostly the loneliness that those memories evoke that renders Roger weak. He doesn’t want to care about what happened anymore, but the hole Stan left in his life remains. It’s deep, black. Roger catches himself staring into it much more often than he would like 6 years later. It beckons him and sometimes he feels like letting himself fall into that pit.

He’s hopeless, and he has nobody to blame. Not Stan, not himself, not Rod. There’s a reason they all have the choice to leave.

There’s a reason some make that choice.

Roger respects his decision most of the time, except when he logs into the monitoring system from his personal computer and tracks Stan down in his new home. That means that at least three out of five nights, Roger doesn’t respect his decision.

Tonight is shaping up to be one of those.

He leaves his Scotch on the center table to go fetch his laptop, returning to the exact same spot after getting it. He places the computer on his once again outstretched legs, and promptly starts making his virtual way to the glorified peephole into his old partner’s new life.

But guilt stops Roger from typing the coordinates that he knows by heart into the search field, and he stares long and hard at the surface of the blue planet they both inhabit as it spins, unaware of its impending doom.

Just like Stan.

That’s the thought that gives Roger another idea, one that makes his heart jump the same way it used to when he first started peering into Stan’s new civilian routine, and maybe still does. He navigates to a list of every camera feed currently being viewed in the monitoring room, and after filtering it by agent he finds the ones Milos is watching. One of them should be from Rafael’s place, and it’s not hard to identify which one it is given that the other two feeds are from the park where he’d met the guy earlier.

He gets the GPS coordinates to Rafael’s place with just a few clicks, and copy pastes it into the search field of the satellite application. He reaches for his Scotch as the computer renders the image, taking another sip and sighing. When the image is fully loaded, it gives him a much more detailed view than the street camera could.

It’s a three-story apartment building tucked in between a much larger one and a church. Each floor has three narrow windows, all covered by drapers from what he can tell, and only one of them has light coming from inside. It’s the middle one on the third floor, and the light looks like it’s from a TV. Roger decides that is Rafael’s apartment, just so he can imagine what the man could be doing at that hour. It’s rather late. 

Roger never considered it might have been selfish not to neuralize him, and now his decision doesn’t even make sense. What exactly is the plan? Why did he need Rafael to remember everything?

He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the back of the sofa. He doesn’t remember ever acting on impulse like this, at least not on the job. Andy should totally have refused to follow his instruction; it’s such a great risk, no matter that the guy can’t even tell the difference between an alien and a monster. What even is a monster?

And the more he thinks about it, the less plausible it seems that someone like Rafael is the hybrid. But Roger knows what he saw, even though his brain wants him to believe otherwise.

_I guess the plan is to prove it._

That white flickering light in the middle room is still on, and Roger sips again from his tumbler, smacking his lips. In a way, he and Rafael already have something in common, as both may be unable to sleep remembering loved companions that they have lost forever. So he decides that he owes it to Rafael to keep him company until he finally manages to fall asleep, until that light goes out.

If it ever does tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave me a review on this crazy idea, if you'd be so kind <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TW** for what you may or may not interpret as suicidal thoughts.

Time is a fairly simple concept in a planet that rotates around itself and travels around a star that illuminates it. In the Solar system all of them do. In our galaxy, the majority of them do as well.

However, the Zyoma never communicated enough for it to be determined where they come from, or how time works for them, exactly. It had only ever been one message, and it arrived loud and clear as though being sent from a neighboring planet. But it couldn’t have been; there is no life in the neighboring planets.

It didn’t take a genius to see the problem, then, that not only the message read like an ultimatum, it was also mostly based on their own version of that concept:

_Release the hybrid before cycle 22, or we will end your entire existence to bring it back._

So far, nobody has been able to figure out what that meant. All that is known is that, for the past 50 Earthen years, cycle 22 never came.

But every day could be the end of that deadline.

 

 

Roger wakes up lying on the sofa. His laptop is sitting on the center table next to an empty tumbler, and the screen is off because it must’ve run out of battery. He’s had half a mind to put those away at some point during the night, but otherwise everything is the same, even the shoes on his feet.

Well, the fire has burned out too.

He has no recollection of when he decided to lie down and sleep, or if he ever saw that light going out. Not that it matters, and he feels silly now for even watching that for so long, and especially for assuming it was Rafael’s apartment in the first place. For a moment, he rests his arms on his forehead and stares at the ceiling trying to sober up, not from any liquor he’s ingested the night before, but from the disillusionment that manifests itself whenever he is home and makes him do stupid things like that.

Every day he has to decide whether he will let that feeling consume him or if he will keep on fighting it.

What makes this decision easier today is that he knows what he wants to do as soon as he gets to work. He’s excited, even, at the prospect of spending most of his day holed up at the archives, digging up the old files on the crash landing in the 1960’s.

In the shower, Roger is distracted going through everything he knows about it in his head. He supposes he knows whatever there is to know, but would there be anything else, any detail that’s been mistakenly overlooked, that could help shed some light into what he experienced at the park? Rod may have dismissed it as just another false alarm, but his gut tells him that this is the closest they’ve ever been to locating the hybrid, and he’s hopeful at the same time that he’s afraid of finding out he’s wrong.

The fact that this has happened to him of all people is something he can’t brush aside. Maybe life is finally compensating for his loss, finally letting him know that it was worth enduring all the pain to fight this battle, when so many had chosen to flee it. And while everyone is allowed to choose what is best for themselves, Roger wouldn’t mind some reassurance about his own past choices that so far have only brought him regret and misery.

After seeing the hybrid for himself, he realizes that there’s many questions he’s never bothered to ask, just because he trusted the people in charge to have already considered all the possibilities.

Now it’s his responsibility to make sure that they have.

He doesn’t waste much more time after his unusual long shower to get ready, donning another one of his black suits and white dress shirts, with the same black tie and pair of shoes from the day before. Maybe he could’ve shaved too, but the beard isn’t adding twenty years to his complexion yet, so it’s probably alright.

His hopes get crushed really fast.

“Oh my god, Roger, what happened to you?” Is what he hears as soon as the elevator doors open into the headquarters. Venus looks like she just changed her mind about getting in, standing still and gaping at him instead as he steps out.

“Good morning, Venus, long time no see, huh?” He says with the friendliest of smiles, volume raised above the usual hubbub of the main floor, and walks around the woman in order not to stand in the way of other people wanting to use the elevator.

She steps aside with him, cocking her head.

“Yeah, and apparently you really let yourself go in the meantime,” she maintains, never one to sugarcoat things but perhaps a little bit overzealous.

“Oh come on, it was _one_ bad night’s sleep,” he argues in a humorous tone, knowing her reproach is in good nature. “And some glasses of Scotch too. But they helped with sleep.”

She gives him a chastising look.

“You look like shit. We need to talk when I come back.”

Roger notices the briefcase in her hand and assumes that won’t be for another three days or so.

“We actually do,” he starts more seriously now, taking a few steps back and beckoning her. It’s hard to be secretive in the very heart of the headquarters, but he finds a quiet spot behind one of the metallic pillars nearby. Venus follows, her stilettos clacking against the floor. She looks gorgeous as always, her dark skin glowing, her suit complimenting her athletic figure in a way that no one else seems to accomplish, not even himself in his best days that are long gone.

“Did Rod tell you?” Roger asks once they’re apart from the crowd.

She frowns quizzically.

“No, I actually didn’t see him. I came just to get some stuff from Andy. What’s up though?”

“I saw the hybrid last night,” he says, lowering his voice even more.

Venus looks positively more shocked than after laying her eyes on him a couple minutes ago.

“The hybrid?” She lowers her voice too, almost to a hush. “The Zyoma hybrid?”

He nods and her jaw drops. She slowly moves her head around for a moment, as though that helps digesting the information. Now that’s one appropriate reaction to such news, as far as Roger is concerned.

“Shit! Are you sure?”

“Yes. I mean… it’s, you know, hard to believe, and the more time passes the more I think it’s impossible, but I’m sure I saw it.”

Judging by Venus’ completely dumbfounded expression, she has a million questions she probably wants to ask right then. She punches him in the arm instead.

“Goddammit Roger, why would you tell me this when I can’t stay longer to talk about it? Fuck, man.”

He grins knowingly.

“You’d bitch at me for not telling you sooner too.”

She glares at him but then breaks into a conceding smile.

“I want to say I’ll do my best to come back soon, but we’re flying across the country to investigate a lab, so I’m sure that’s going to be at least three or four days.”

“Does that have anything to do with the Krylian from last night?”

“Yeah, we traced the PBZ back to a lab in Nevada, we wanna see who they’re selling it to.”

Roger’s face turns mildly sarcastic.

“Because Warhol has all the suppliers under his watch, am I right?”

Venus snorts and cracks up a bit.

“Don’t be mean, it’s not his fault. This was probably sold illegally,” she explains, barely keeping a straight face despite herself.

“Wish you could stay, too.” He says after a pause. Venus is a great friend, and has been so ever since they met all those years ago when both joined the organization. Just talking to her for a little bit seems to lift a lot of the weight off his back.

She places a hand on his shoulder. She’s so tall that, on her stilettos, she almost has to look down at him.

“Can’t believe I still have to say this after six years, but you need to take care of yourself, Roger,” her tone softens as she speaks, and her brows draw together ever so slightly.

Roger lowers his eyes for a brief moment.

“I’m really trying,” he says when he looks up again, trying desperately to stop the sudden downpour of emotions inside him.

“I know you are, and I’m here for you whenever you feel like you can’t do it, okay?”

She pulls him for a hug before he can respond, and Roger feels like he doesn’t have to say anything because she knows. She knows better than anyone.

 

 

The thing with being the boss but not quite is that Roger still has to follow orders. He should have known it was unrealistic for him to expect to be able to do any research work, what with the constant influx of extra-terrestrial misdemeanors around the city, all of which he is still in charge of looking into, or at the very least assign other people to do it. There aren’t many that he trusts to do so, however, especially in the recent years after Venus got transferred to Andy’s team, which is still a point of contention between the lab leader and him. She’s really thriving in that area though, so Roger doesn’t make a big deal out of it.

At this rate, would he still know how to work closely with someone? Six years have surely gotten him used to being on his own out there, in his own mind, relying almost exclusively on himself and his own abilities. It’s rather unlikely, or at least feels so, that he would develop the same proximity with a new partner that he had with Stan, and he probably wouldn’t want to, anyway. If Stan was able to do what he did to him, then Roger can’t expect better from anyone else, except Venus. But she is taken, so that leaves him with no other option.

His choice for a new companion, then, is a notepad. It stays in the glove compartment of his black sedan and, of course, isn’t the first or the last one he will have used thus far. There’s a certain satisfaction in knowing that in the end, when they run out of space for him to write on, Roger will be the one doing the discarding and not the other way around. But it doesn’t help much with the ancient jokes he has to hear from Andy all the time.

 _“Get on with the times, Roger,”_ has to be something of a catchphrase by now, but Roger takes it in stride even when he hears it from people who definitely shouldn’t be jumping on the bandwagon, like Rod himself. They don’t know there’s something therapeutic about holding pen to paper and letting thoughts flow, although those aren’t exactly the thoughts burdening him. He wouldn’t risk leaving those lying around.

When he enters familiar places now though, people greet him and the notepad, and it’s never not a reminder of what it used to be like in the past.

It never stings any less.

 

 

After a day of visits, he returns to the base and goes straight to the coffee room to grab fuel for his night shift, which he intends to be in the peace of the archives. It’s a surprise, but not really considering the recent events, that two nearly identical blondes are in there already, talking to each other over tall cups of steamy, recently brewed coffee. They both notice him at the same time and he smiles cordially.

“Ladies,” he greets them with a nod and they smile back, somewhat bashfully.

“Hello, Roger,” one of them, Karolina, says as he circles them to get to the cupboard with the coffee brewer.

Roger has devised a method to quickly identify who is who, and it consists of discreetly running his eyes over their faces to see who has the slightly wider nose, that being Karolina. Her sister Kristyna’s nose, while slimmer, is a little more crooked at the bridge. It did take him some time to foolproof the method though, because they’re always coming and going and Roger doesn’t see them much.

“What brings you back to our humble planet?” He asks casually while pouring himself coffee on a cup as tall as theirs. Karolina moves to lean against the countertop on the other side of the rather compact room, and Krystina takes a seat by the small round white table at the center.

“Updates,” she says simply before taking another slow sip from her cup, looking at Roger from behind her lashes. They often look like they’re flirting with him, which’s a little bit unsettling.

“We’re not the ones bringing them this time, though,” Karolina adds.

Roger immediately knows what they mean.

“Oh, you came quickly, then.”

“Yes, we were nearby,” Kristyna says, and Roger chuckles with his cup halfway to meeting his lips. Their notion of distance is most likely very warped, so they could be talking about a few thousand light years for all he knows.

“So I guess you wanted to see me in particular?”

“Yes, we were waiting for you. Do you have an office yet?” Karolina asks in a teasing tone, and Roger effectively laughs.

“Ah, how’s it possible that you always get me with the same question?”

“How’s it possible that you still don’t have an office?”

Roger shrugs.

“I don’t stay here a lot, I’m always outside. Like you girls.”

The parallel apparently pleases them, because they both smile exactly the same way at him. He hopes they don’t notice the shudders that run through his body then.

“Well,” Karolina walks up to the coffee brewer behind Roger, and he scoots over to the side to get out of the way. “Where can we talk, then?”

It seems only fitting that he takes them to the archives, since they’re going to talk about the same thing Roger means to research.

 

 

For people that like to pick on him so much for using a notepad, they sure are quick to forget that the organization itself still keeps a physical archive in the building. Granted, every record has been ported to the digital world a long time ago, but it isn’t only Roger that prefers to consult the original files instead when he needs to, which isn’t too frequently because he has people to do that for him most of the time. In fact, the person that greets them once they walk into the room would happily search for an ‘i’ missing a dot on each one of the tens of thousands of files, if Roger were sadistic enough to ask him to.

“Oh, hello, Roger! And Karolina and Kristyna!” The young man, David, leaps up from behind his work desk on the other end of the room as soon as the elevator chimes and reveals the three of them. Roger can see his crystalline blue eyes sparkle all the way from there, but the guy approaches them in long strides and is soon right in front of them, looking up at Roger like a puppy to its owner. It dawns on Roger that David looks like he could be related to the two women accompanying him, that is, if they were actually human. And it’s all he can think of for a moment: that they have the exact same pale skin, blond hair, blue eyes and thin lips, although David is shorter than the sisters.

“Can I do anything for you?” He asks in a hurried tone, trying to be helpful in any way.

“Actually, can you bring us the records from the Zyoma crash?” Roger asks while they all walk towards the meeting table by the shelves.

“Sure!” David lights up at the request, as he was probably expecting to be dismissed instead.

The carpeted floor absorbs their footsteps, and even the color, grey, which’s predominant in there, is a nice change from the sterile white literally everywhere else in the building. The room is very spacious but the scarce lighting makes it feel cozy, perfect for reading and concentrating. The dozens of metal shelves containing the record boxes are all perpendicular to the wall on the right, and David’s desk is located at the end of them, or beginning depending on how you interpret it. The meeting table is also perpendicular with the shelves, more or less center-aligned with them. The only lights are directly above the table, David’s desk and in between the shelves, but they are sufficient.

Roger doesn’t take the “boss seat” at the head of the table, favoring the one before it instead, back turned to the shelves. Karolina sits right across him and places her coffee cup on the table; Kristyna occupies the chair to her right. 

“Okay girls, if Rod already told you what happened last night then I probably don’t have a lot to add,” he says matter-of-factly. 

“All he did was brief us, he wanted us to talk to you. And in any case, he didn’t see what you saw,” Karolina says while her sister drinks from her cup.

Roger chuckles despondently, shoulders sagging.

“Yeah, that’s the whole problem, I guess.”

“So, tell us about it,” Krystina says and the two of them recline on their chairs in a fairly amusing way, just short of looking like they’re mob bosses.

“Honestly, I didn’t see all that much,” he starts, and once again his conviction wavers like he’s incapable of believing it a hundred percent. He continues nevertheless. “It’s a man, with the appearance of someone I’d say around… 24, or even younger, very strong arms from what I saw…”

“That is not important,” Kristyna pipes in, and Roger looks at her rather contemplatively.

“I suppose it’s not,” he says simply.

There is a pause then that David uses to deposit two boxes next to Roger on the table. Roger turns to him.

“Can you get me some coffee, please?”

David nods silently and takes off in a hurry, seeming to pick up on the heavy atmosphere. There is, of course, a coffee machine in this floor too, even though its coffee isn’t as good as the one from the other brewer in Roger’s opinion.

“You saw a sign, right? On him?” Karolina asks.

“Yes, on his ankles when he was fighting the Krylian. They shone this soft blue light, and it formed a diamond pattern, hollow diamonds. And it blinked for a while.”

“How long did it last?”

“Why was he fighting the Krylian?”

Roger looks from one sister to another after they ask two different questions at the same time, and chooses to answer Kristyna’s first.

“The Krylian was eating his dog, he was trying to pull it from inside it. I actually can’t tell how long it lasted because I had to help him. And then when the fight stopped the glow wasn’t there anymore. I kept checking but it never came back.”

“Did you notice any other lights on his body, like on his wrists?” Karolina asks again, drawing Roger’s attention.

He frowns.

“No.”

They both inhale deeply, and Roger’s own breathing gets a little shallower as his anxiety grows, especially as it takes a moment or two for one of them to talk again.

“You saw one of the signs,” Karolina notes and her sister nods. Roger remembers that Rod had emphasized that as well, that it had been one of the signs. He doesn’t know what they mean by that and it irks him; he hates knowing less than other people.

He shakes his head.

“How does that change anything? What else could have done that? Is there another race that emits a random-ass blue light from their ankles?”

The twins continue to look stoic as he rambles. David brings him a plastic cup with coffee that Roger fully expects to be just the way he likes it, because David wouldn’t forget. He takes a sip off of it at the same time Karolina takes one from hers, and when she finishes she leans forward, arms crossed on the table.

“It changes literally nothing, Roger.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it, then shakes his head again.

“Elaborate, please,” is what he ends up asking, patience running thin.

“There are three signs. If it’s a humanoid hybrid, the light usually manifests on the ankles, wrists and chests,” Karolina explains.

This is brand new information to him, and it’s definitely overwhelming.

“Can’t we assume he had all three? No one could possibly see them all at the same time!”

“We can’t just assume,” Kristyna retorts in a somewhat annoyed tone. “All of the hybrids can show one or two of the signs.”

“Wait.” Roger stares at the two in disbelief. “ _All_ of the hybrids? When did it stop being only one?”

“We don’t have a lot of information on this, but the reports from other races that have interacted with these hybrids have shown us that there are at least three different types, and they are after the one that doesn’t exist anywhere else in the universe. The one that glows three lights.”

As Karolina finishes explaining it, Roger is internally grasping at straws to keep up hope. How did he not know any of this? Bitterness settles in his chest and stomach, as he slips farther and farther away from any optimism that he’d been harboring since the previous night.

“And they know this special one is here?”

“Yes. They can sense their kin wherever they are in the universe because of the lights, it works like electromagnetic waves. This hybrid in particular sends a much stronger signal to them.”

Roger finishes his coffee in one go and then leans forward too.

“So, what you’re telling me is that there may be lots of Zyoma hybrids around? We just can’t tell who the one they want is?”

“We can’t tell who none of them are, Roger,” the same sister says again, starting to sound exasperated herself. “There were never any other sightings that we know of. As far as we know, you’re the first to ever see one.”

“Okay so let’s bring him in! Let’s run tests on him!” He throws his arms in the air and himself back on the chair, scoffing and most probably looking desperate. “Isn’t that the course of action?”

Kristyna shakes and hangs her head, smiling to herself, while Karolina clasps her hands together on the table and stares extra hard right into his eyes.

“You want to keep him locked up until he shows the signs again? Because we don’t know what triggers it.”

“He might know. I never questioned him.”

“And assuming he does and doesn’t lie to you about it,” Kristyna chimes in again, still smiling like his ignorance is very funny to her. “What, then? What do you do?”

“You are aware that we never managed to contact the Zyoma, right?” Karolina piles on.

Roger holds his head in his hands, fingers rubbing his face for about a minute before he draws in a long sigh.

This is too much, and his patience is gone.

He gets up from his chair and the twins finally show something other than contempt on their faces, as they look up at him.

“Look, you came all the way from fuck who knows where to tell me there’s nothing we can do? Why? You already knew what I saw so there was no point in any of this. It was just a big waste of my time and yours. But you don’t have to worry about your time running out, now isn’t that right?”

Jaw set and frustration burning inside, Roger puts his chair back into place, holding back an urge to hurl it across the room instead. Still somehow he remembers to thank David for his help.

“David, thank you for the files. I’ll come back for them at another time.”

“No problem, Roger,” he responds from his desk, looking perhaps a bit disappointed that Roger is already leaving, and on a sour note at that.

Even on the carpet Roger’s steps echo a little, as he makes his way to the elevators without looking back. He props himself with his clenched fists on the wall while waiting, and then does the same inside the elevator after pushing the main floor button, eyes closed and breathing heavy.

When it stops on the main floor he doesn’t get out. His legs don’t move, and he doesn’t even turn to face the hall. He’s way too distraught to return to work, so he goes up another level to the lobby of the hotel and exits in hurried steps, the elevator first and then the building.

The night receives him with silence and the occasional cold breeze, courtesy of the end of October weather. The surroundings of the headquarters are mostly big commercial buildings that see no activity during the night, which’s usually, and intentionally, the period where the hotel sees most. Tonight appears to be an exception, as the vicinity looks completely deserted except for him. It’s not even that late, but he is so exhausted that it feels like he only has a couple hours before dawn.

Nothing has gone according to plan today, and it’s not that Roger has never had days like this before; he probably has one every week. Sure, they got more frequent after Stan left but nothing Roger considers abnormal, at least not for someone of his status and responsibilities, someone who lives and breathes work. But again, every single employee of the organization does as well, and he doesn’t think he is any more entitled to complain about it than his subordinates.

In fact, his workload has nothing to do with how he feels at all. It’s just that the future looks so bleak, so unredeemable, that he sees no point in anything he does anymore. It’s exactly like Karolina has told him:

_It changes literally nothing._

He’s done this more times than he can count: go outside at night, alone, to watch the stars and contemplate life without knowing alien life forms. The blissful ignorance that the vast majority of people are blessed with, unbeknownst to them. So many people are after the truth, to only belatedly realize that they don’t actually want it. But that’s why they, the Men in Black, exist: because they can give people a second chance into knowing nothing.

The truth changes so much and so fast for the ones like him. In the morning he thought he could save the world, and now he’s knocked prone with his hands tied. He should be used to the ups and downs by now, but they only get harder to accept each passing day. And being robbed of his hope like he’d been today just leaves him bare and vulnerable, lost and with no idea where to go or what to do.

Rod’s conformity makes much more sense now. For some reason Roger had thought they’d been making progress over the years, that the previous night’s events would have been the last piece to the Zyoma puzzle, the one that would put an end to that ridiculously unfair menace. But he was wrong. 

He’s going to end the day with so many more doubts than he had starting it, and a whole new level of disappointment to assimilate that he just can’t imagine he will be able to, not with how tired he already is.

Not with how close he is to giving up.

 

 

The fresh night air helps Roger calm down, but he doesn’t feel any better when he eventually returns to the base. It would be great if he could just go home, but there’s still one thing he needs to take care of before he’s able to call it a day: if Rafael isn’t what they are looking for, monitoring him is no longer a necessity, and he needs to let Milos know.

The second floor is much busier now that most of the lab team is there, save for the ones who had traveled to Nevada with Venus. He’s already been informed during the day of the death of the Krylian that he’d shot the previous night, but isn’t sure Andy knows about the hybrid. In other circumstances Roger would have been happy to fill him in; as it is though, he walks straight past his lab without even looking in its direction, hoping not to be interrupted. It works.

When he enters the monitoring room, the first thing he notices is that Milos isn’t there. Roger can tell right away that the agent working next to his empty chair on their shared desk is Grigor. His short dark hair and the shape of his head are unmistakable, as well as the beard that, unlike Roger’s, is carefully grown and groomed, because he actually _means_ to have one.

“Hey boss,” Grigor says in his usual cheerful tone when Roger stops by his side, in between his chair and Milos’. “Looking for the tall guy?”

“Yes, I guess it’s his day off?” Roger answers, looking over the monitors and computer screens in front of them, but not recognizing any of the places shown in them.

“Yup. I took over monitoring the guy you asked him to, and he left these notes for me to give you when you came by.”

Grigor hands him a sheet of paper with some bullet point notes printed out on it, because handwriting is so out of fashion. Roger only skims through them, deciding he’ll take a more careful look once he’s alone.

“Which one of these is it?” Roger asks, pointing at the screens.

“Oh, this one,” Grigor shows his computer, and Roger frowns as he leans forward to look. He sees a storefront on the camera feed, not Rafael’s apartment building.

“What’s that?”

“The pizzeria. Where he works,” the younger man says like it’s obvious, failing to realize that Roger didn’t read the notes he's just given him.

“Oh,” Roger straightens up again, somewhat in surprise. He keeps watching for about a minute but Rafael doesn’t show up on the screen. He wants to stay and watch more, but this isn’t the place for him to give in to curiosity.

“Thanks, Grigor. You don’t need to keep watching him though, turns out he’s not really what I thought he was.”

“Really? That’s a shame. He’s very nice to look at,” Grigor comments, so out of left field that it almost sends Roger spluttering.

“Well, I mean, sure,” he tries to play along with a disconcerted smile. “Keep tabs on him if you want, just don’t let the other boss catch you.”

“I’m just kidding, Rog. There’s plenty of real nice people to look at around me already,” and with that he casts a very intense glance at Roger, that successfully brings out a red hue onto his cheeks.

That is one too many confessions for him to play along with, so he just smiles awkwardly, nods, and leaves, with Grigor bravely watching him all the way to the exit.

 

 

Roger just can’t shake off this weird, icky feeling of having been flirted with by one of his ex-lover’s best friends.

He’s still frowning to himself in front of the full-length mirror in his room as he unties his tie, jacket already back in the closet. Stan and Grigor used to be very close back then, in the same way that he is close with Venus. Roger never felt threatened by their friendship though, whereas Stan did by his and Venus’ sometimes.

Speaking of Venus, he really wishes he felt like taking better care of himself as she’d asked him to. A good start would be stopping letting everything he does remind him of Stan. But it’s not easy to disentangle himself from the memories of their past together, because Stan was as integral a part of his life as his job is, and Roger never imagined himself without either.

Now he’s beginning to imagine himself without both more and more.

But what would Stan say if he saw the exchange at the monitoring room? Would Grigor even have done that had he been still around? Probably not; he’d never acted that way before. It then begs the question: has Grigor always felt this way toward him, or has he only started to see Roger with other eyes after Stan’s departure?

It’s a distracting thought, and a flattering one as well, that Roger more than welcomes as he hops in the shower, not planning to stay there for as long as he’d done in the morning. There is something rather titillating about Grigor admitting to finding him hot, and not only him but also Rafael. Rafael, whose appearance he’d caught himself describing to the Daleska sisters as if it were in any way relevant to them.

And Roger really has to agree with Grigor’s assessment of the man, even though he hasn’t had the opportunity to look at him as much. But he remembers the thick locks of hair sticking to his face and neck, the cheekbones, the jawline, the arms. It’s a wonder that he’s able to think of Rafael as anything other than the hybrid, and he has Grigor to thank for that and for making him feel wanted again. It’s just been so long since he's felt anything close to it, and the younger agent's words seem to have incited not only that, but also this sort of interest that’s making him think of other men in a way he hasn’t done for years. He never seeks those feelings anymore, but they’re irresistible once they infiltrate his mind. Roger wants to forget all about hybrids, aliens, threats and destruction, and just focus on them for now.

The hot water raises bumps on his skin and Roger gets light-headed, blood steadily flowing to his crotch area until he’s fully aroused. It's still Stan who dominates his thoughts though, with how good he used to be at letting him know how much he was wanted, and Roger could never get enough of that physically painful need to make Stan his, giving him what he always pleaded for so effusively. The rare times Roger had allowed himself to remember those days had always been followed by an acute grief, but as his brain recreates all those inebriating feelings his body just gives in, and he’s incapable of caring about the consequences. He lets himself go, hand working fast, sounds that he can’t tell whether they’re real or only in his head, saved all those years ago when he never needed to do this alone. He’s able to trick himself into thinking it feels just as good, and the climax is intense, so much it makes his knees buckle.

But, as certain as death and taxes, it hurts afterwards. And he cries.

He doesn’t stop crying even in his bed, curled up in his bathrobe, clutching his own arms so hard it looks like he wants to tear them from his body. He feels played with like a piece in a Tetris game, and whoever is playing keeps making the wrong moves, burying him under so many layers of sadness, loneliness, regret, hopelessness, and the relief just never comes. The screen, as his life, is a mess of pieces that don’t fit and empty spaces that can’t be filled. The new pieces keep coming faster and faster, and there’s no time to think where to put them. The weight on him becomes simply too much to bear.

How can he resent Stan for his decision, seeing what his own life has turned into? How can he blame Stan for choosing blissful ignorance over this torment? Stan was lucky he didn’t feel morally obligated to put up with any of this, like he does. If anything Roger is jealous, because he would rather die than quit.

And he’s been dying ever since the day he didn’t have Stan by his side anymore.

There is no motivation left in him. All Roger wants is for everything to end as soon as possible, which is the most selfish he’s ever been in his life. But the only reason he’s gone through all this was to try and help people, and after so many years of absolute dedication, of literally giving up life and love for this, all he had wanted was to achieve something that would’ve made it all worth it. 

He stayed because he believed he could do it.

Where does he go now that he doesn’t anymore?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the reviews so far! Keep them coming <3 ConCrit is also accepted!


	3. 3a

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 is a flashback chapter that had to be divided in two parts, and this is the first. And I know y'all here for the Fedal, but this chapter focuses _heavily_ on Federinka, for obvious reasons (it's a flashback). I still wouldn't skip it if I were you.
> 
> Also, I have not gone crazy: this was deliberately written in past tense.

Roger couldn’t possibly have anticipated the consequences of telling him.

 

 

They had seen each other before, but it was not until the official last day of his training that they were properly introduced. Even with Roger’s hectic days as a new agent, it was impossible not to have noticed him at some point, following Pete around everywhere, much like Roger had once done, taking notes and almost never speaking, only listening. Roger could still relate to that more than a year after his own training, could still see himself in that position, trying to absorb every ounce of knowledge from Pete and scared that he’d never live up to the expectation. But, of course, he was there because he was good, and he assumed the new guy was too if Pete was mentoring him himself; Roger came to learn after a while that he only trained the best prospects, the ones Rod pitched as potential future leaders.

Naturally, Roger was curious about what exactly had made Rod think of the new guy as one.

He’d been huddled with Venus and Serena around the holographic map in the monitoring room, discussing escape routes from an alien smuggler’s den that they were going to break into soon, when the sound of loud footsteps came in from the entrance as they did all the time, nothing to really pay any mind to. It was when they stopped abruptly before reaching any particular destination that Roger looked up, and then the sisters did as well.

“Guys,” Pete started, his commanding voice automatically making everyone stop what they were doing and turn around to face him; him and the shorter, younger man by his side. “I’d like to introduce you to our new agent, Stan Wawrinka. Some of you might already know him since he’s been training with me for some time. I’ll be counting on all of you to assist him during this period of transition. Please welcome him to the team.”

As everyone greeted and welcomed Stan from their seats, some with more interest than others, Roger noticed that the attention made the guy a little shy, his eyes sweeping across the room without really taking anyone in. Then he felt Pete’s eyes on him.

“Roger, Venus, Serena, do you mind?” The man made a beckoning gesture at them and turned to leave, with Stan in tow. Roger and the sisters looked at each other in a little bit of confusion but quickly followed them, presumably to Pete’s office. And once there, Pete motioned for them all to take a seat in front of his desk.

“We haven’t had a new recruit since the three of you joined two years ago,” he began, taking a seat himself. Roger internally fact-checked him, since it’d actually been a little less than a year and a half. But he was being nitpicky. “Agents like you are hard to come by, and we often need to scout people in other countries, as it was with you, Roger, and also with Stan.”

Roger nodded, and even with Venus and Serena sitting between them he could see the guy doing the same.

“He’s actually from Switzerland too,” Pete added with a raise of his brows, rocking on his high-backed leather chair and joining his fingertips to form a steeple. “Did you know?”

Roger didn’t, and he didn’t hide his surprise either as he immediately leaned forward to look at Stan, as though the information painted him in an entirely different light.

“Nice,” Roger said, and Stan just smiled awkwardly again, very briefly looking in his direction but avoiding his eyes.

Pete nodded, contented with their short interaction.

“Anyway, I want you four to work together. Stan has shown a lot of competence dealing with the cases he accompanied me on. He will be of much help to you.”

“We’ll be glad to work with him,” Venus said, her tone carrying over the friendly smile on her face.

“It’s going to be great to have a buddy to back me up against these two,” Roger joked, and the sisters all but collectively rolled their eyes and groaned.

“You’re such a tool, Roger,” Serena said, making sure to stare in mock-disgust at him.

“See?” Roger raised his eyebrows and laughed, as the sisters continued to side-eye him. Stan only chuckled quietly, probably watching himself in front of Pete, who didn’t seem to mind the playful exchange.

“Great. I expect you to work really well together. There probably won’t be any additions to the team for a long time after this. Can I count on you?”

“Absolutely,” Roger nodded solemnly now, the others giving some sort of affirmative answer as well.

They stayed longer to talk about the next move to bust an illegal distribution of alien minerals to various non-regulated sellers on Earth, and to Roger’s surprise Stan was already privy to the case, even sharing his own ideas as to how to go about it, which Pete seemed to receive well. He talked like he was afraid to impose though, voice low and tentative, and still had trouble looking anyone in the eyes. Whether he was going to get over that timidity or not, Roger was certainly interested in finding out.

As Pete dismissed them, Serena promptly engaged in conversation with Stan, in what Roger recognized as an attempt to be inclusive and help him loosen up. He himself was looking forward to an opportunity to get to know the guy better, see what else they shared besides the birthplace. His first impressions didn’t give him much hope about having anything else in common, but Roger felt drawn to his docile personality, which seemed like a good match to his own bubbly one. If they were going to be stuck working together for the next who know how many years, he hoped that would hold true.

Stan, for his part, didn’t shy away from those opportunities when they came. He was an enjoyable company during the long hours monitoring the Cruwklon gang’s activities, really good at observing and recognizing patterns, but still very eager to learn more. After so long in the apprentice role, Roger was pleased with how much knowledge he could already impart on someone, and it excited him more than he would admit to have someone look up to him that way, too.

“It’s weird,” Stan had said at some point during the second night, reclining on his seat with crossed arms. Looking at his profile, Roger could see the reflection of the screens in his eyes, shadows and lights rippling the surface of his otherwise calm green irises. “People out there spend their entire lives wondering about other life forms in the universe, but I was never one of them. And now I’m here, watching aliens unload shipments of alien contraband on our planet, like they belong, no different from our own criminals.”

“Yeah, it’s a little weird at first,” Roger said, interested in the direction their conversation was taking. “You’ll get used to it.” 

“Yeah, I know. I just find it funny that it’s me, out of all people, who gets to know the truth.”

Roger chuckled lightly and looked down, swinging his chair a little, recognizing for the first time what was possibly one of the traits that had gotten Stan there. You couldn’t be too impressionable, too in awe of the realities of the universe. It couldn’t get overwhelming, not in the beginning and not in the end.

Roger shrugged.

“They’re just our neighbors.” He lifted his head again and stared at the monitors overhead. “The fact that they’re not like us doesn’t mean much, in the end. We still have to know how to deal with them, just like with other human beings.”

“True. But can someone be better at dealing with aliens than with other human beings?” He asked, looking at Roger and laughing, obviously referring to himself.

Roger cocked his head bemusedly, an eyebrow rising as his lower lip jutted out.

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough.” 

 

 

Roger had been worrying that Stan wouldn’t be ready for the approaching Cruwklon mission, and bonding with him during those hours did little to allay that feeling. It might in fact have made it worse, because now he had started caring about the younger man, and if something bad were to happen to him Roger would regret not having brought it up sooner to prevent it. Stan was only 18, and it didn’t matter that Roger could see all the qualities that had landed him this job, he still thought it was too soon.

“We are going in with fifty agents and myself,” Pete announced to the four of them on the morning of the operation day, standing behind his desk while they stood almost shoulder to shoulder in front of it. “Serena, Venus, Roger, you can choose how many agents you want to take with you as each of you cover one of the three exits. Stan is going in with me and the rest through the front.”

The plan wasn’t a surprise; they had been discussing it through the better part of the last three weeks while gathering the necessary data for the execution. They would be largely outnumbering the Cruwklon gang too, which minimized the risk of something going awry. But Roger knew Pete was counting on them to surrender without a fight, and he was never so sure that was how things were going to play out. The worst case scenario scared him, and he couldn’t avoid it showing once they were out of Pete’s office, his barely-there lines of expression hardening to give him an uncharacteristic frown.

When he felt Venus’ hand on his wrist, purposefully slowing their pace so they fell behind her sister and Stan, Roger noticed her look likely mirrored his.

“What’s wrong?”

Torn between downplaying his worry and being honest, Roger sighed and looked away.

“I don’t know. I’m a little paranoid, I think.”

“About the mission?” She pressed, her voice imbued with concern.

“Yeah.” He looked at her. “I think Pete’s too optimist about how this is gonna go down.”

“But we’re prepared, right? Even if they resist?”

Roger sighed again, instinctively tucking a strand of his long hair behind his ear, a strand that wasn’t there.

“Do you think Stan is?”

The question made Venus hesitate, her stance becoming a little more reserved.

“We have to trust that he is, I guess. I mean, you spent the most time with him these days, what do _you_ think?”

“It’s two completely distinct situations, Vee,” Roger huffed. “Sure, he acts mature for an 18 year old, but if faced with threat, who knows? Could be a tall order.”

“I get what you’re saying, but I think we don’t need to worry,” Venus replied, her features relaxing as she tried to reassure him. “Pete knows what he’s doing, and I’m sure he’s got Rod’s approval as well. If both of them think the boy can do it, then there’s no reason for us to be the ones doubting it.”

In the silence that followed, Roger caught a glimpse of Stan and Serena way ahead of them, just as they turned a corner at the end of the large corridor. Venus was right, but he found himself unable to reason with his own mind the way she reasoned with him, so he would most definitely continue to fret internally until everything was over.

But once he and Venus got to the weapon room, Stan had already picked up one of the Ionhibitors, handling it with so much confidence as he made the last adjustments to the gun that Roger’s doubts became instantly harder to justify. He looked every bit ready. It gave Roger just enough peace of mind to try not messing up the mission himself.

 

 

Only on very rare occasions Roger didn’t like being right. That had everything to have become one of them, but thankfully he was only partially right about how the operation would go, in that it didn’t go nearly as smoothly as Pete had predicted, but also Stan had done exceedingly well when the Cruwklons decided they weren’t in the mood for negotiation. The panic that had seized Roger’s heart when he heard the first shots, and his subsequent actions, now made him laugh and shake his head.

As a matter of fact, it made all of them laugh, and he couldn’t even attribute that or the heat in his face to them being drunk, because he and Stan weren’t drinking, the latter because he couldn’t, and Roger because he was always the driver when they went to the Zero Gravity for a little distraction after a rough day.

“Next time I think we need to make sure _you’re_ ready instead,” Serena quipped, tipping dangerously to one side on her barstool well on her way to inebriation, an empty and sweaty beer mug sitting in front of her on the counter.

On the stool to his right Stan seemed to be fighting back a bashful smile, and Roger felt a little less silly about his own awkwardness.

But then Venus’ hand fell heavily on his left shoulder.

“Don’t make fun of him, Serena!” She exclaimed dramatically, way louder than necessary, giving Serena a comically dirty look. “He can’t help worrying about us, don’t you know him? He’s just too nice!”

There wasn’t an ounce of sarcasm in what Venus said, but Roger could barely keep himself from going to hide in the restroom, embarrassment hitting him like rocket flames to the face.

“I ain’t never seen him that worried about me! Little Stan over there is definitely getting some special treatment,” Serena said, her tone giving away the playful nature of the comment.

Stan finally laughed as though hearing his name, or rather, the nickname, had set him off, the sound abrupt but still warm, like he was incapable of taking anything the wrong way.

“What if he is? He’s Roger’s little brother from Switzerland, let him protect him if he wants!” Venus argued, hand squeezing Roger’s shoulder either to comfort him or to encourage him to speak up. All it did was make him more self-conscious.

“Okay, okay! I’m just saying! Just saying!” Serena conceded, throwing both hands in the air and taking the opportunity to call over the barman to order another beer. Forlan, a Varturran in a tall, emaciated male human disguise and dressed in all ill-fitting barman clothes, shuffled over and grabbed the empty mug, shoving it somewhere underneath the counter and immediately producing another full one, that he set in front of her before going back, ever so slowly, to the full sink he’d been tending to. Clearly he wouldn’t be a very good barman if it weren’t for the Nulzergs that they couldn’t see working below the counter, the actual owners of the bar. “Take it easy, Forlan!” Serena shouted at his sluggish retreating figure and giggled childishly.

“Roger darling, don’t listen to her,” Venus now addressed him, and Roger could tell the alcohol was getting to her as well. “It’s perfectly okay to worry about Stanny boy.”

“Hey, Gormon!” Roger then shouted with a smile betraying his attempt at looking angry, making a point to be heard over the music and chatter. “No more drinks for these girls over here, they’re getting too sassy!” 

“Can’t do, Roger!” Came the lighthearted reply in a gruff voice, shouted back from somewhere beneath the other side of the counter. “That’s how I pay the bills at the end of the month!”

“Oh, come on, Gormon! Work with me here!” Roger shook his head while Serena cheered, lifting her mug at him triumphantly, as in a toast.

“I’m here tryna defend your ass and you try to sabotage my drinking night?” Venus protested, that comically dirty look even funnier when it was directed at him. “That’s cold, Roger. Cold!”

All teasing aside, Roger knew he shouldn’t feel so embarrassed by what had transpired at the Cruwklons’ den. He had made a conscious decision to leave his team behind with instructions to continue covering the lateral exit of the building, and rush to the front to assist Pete and his men as soon as the firing began. Not allowing the Cruwklons to escape to begin with seemed more important than guarding the exits in case they did, anyway, because even with the Ionhibitors that he, Pete and Stan were carrying, he knew it would take more than one shot to completely vaporize them because of their multiplying abilities, since their clones could be born instantly from even their smallest remains.

It wasn’t a flub, and it especially wasn’t because of Stan. So why did he feel so irresponsible now? Why couldn’t he back himself up?

Perhaps because watching the young man in action, his positioning, focus, precision, it all gave Roger a sense of relief that he had definitely been needing. Making sure that Stan was just as reliable as his two other partners and himself was of utmost importance to him for some odd reason. Roger didn’t understand why it mattered so much, and couldn’t find a plausible explanation for doubting his superiors either, when it came to trusting Stan’s skills.

Luckily, the young man didn’t appear to be bothered by any of it. His cool demeanor was quite fascinating, although different now from when he was shooting Cruwklons from behind an overturned metal table, not a sign of stress besides maybe his thin lips pressed in a hard line and the almost imperceptible layer of sweat on his forehead, even as some of the creatures exploded into amorphous blobs that would become new Cruwklons in a matter of seconds. It’d taken years for Roger to reach that level of unflappability himself, but Stan was seemingly a natural. Now he was here feasting on spinach and artichoke dips as if it were his last meal, and the two concepts seemed so far apart yet connected by that same equanimity.

But as far as Roger could tell he was comfortable, and that contented him.

The sisters decided they’d had enough drinks once Venus thought she saw a fourth arm on an undressed Drauath, and Roger paid for all of them as a means of expressing his gratitude for their great work earlier. 

“You really are too nice, aren’t you?” Serena said with one arm thrown around his neck, making Roger wonder if she was being affectionate or sneakily getting help to walk. He didn’t mind it either way, and walked with her to the exit after the other two. The only black sedans parked outside of the bar were his and Stan’s, since the girls weren’t driving.

“You know,” Roger heard Stan say just before he followed Venus and Serena into his car. He turned and found him with his hands stuffed in his pockets, rocking on his feet a little too casually, inevitably giving away some nervousness. “It’d be cool to have a boys’ night out one of these days. I liked this place a lot.”

Surprise held his response a moment longer than Roger would’ve liked, and for the first time since meeting Stan he saw color suffusing his cheeks. Stan bravely maintained eye contact though, which was even rarer for him.

“Sure, yeah,” he said with a nod and a smile. “We’ll do that soon.”

They nodded at each other, Stan also taking a moment longer to get into his car after Roger did.

The responsible thing to do would be not getting excited by the idea of going out alone with Stan. And so, Roger felt irresponsible for the second time that day.

 

 

In the years that followed, the Zero Gravity saw them together once almost every week after that first night. It saw Stan grow at least another inch taller and his physique improve greatly, his strawberry blonde hair become a shade darker, and his acne-scarred face become fuller, also gaining a wispy and barely-there beard. It saw Roger lose the long hair and adopt a much more mature style, following the natural evolution of his character. It saw him get more polished and Stan get bolder, and both of them get savvier and sharper. It saw them earn a reputation as most well-respected agents alongside Venus and Serena after Pete’s retirement, and their careers and responsibilities take off accordingly.

But it didn’t see everything.

It didn’t see the frequently shared laughs at the headquarters’ halls or at the empty office room they had sort of appropriated for themselves. It didn’t see them pretty much become inseparable once Stan ditched his own car to ride with Roger instead. It didn’t see the many nights when, too far away from the Zero Gravity, they just sat together at empty parks with snacks and talked into the small hours, in their native language, about their childhoods and former identities, about what it would be like to live in space if they could, Roger always more open to the idea than Stan. It didn’t see them driving through town together, solving problems together, getting in danger together, getting praise and sometimes reprimanded together too.

It only saw their close friendship, not the feelings that both started nurturing very early on. The decision to wait, however, was never made out loud, but it was silently agreed upon ever since their first night hanging out without the girls.

And they waited as much as physically possible. But at some point, the only things left for them to learn about each other were the taste of each other’s lips, the feel of each other’s bodies, how they responded to each other’s touches, and the sounds they could draw out of each other with them.

Roger never lied to himself; he knew exactly how much he wanted it. He knew he wasn’t just lonely and needy, and that this wasn’t the same sort of infatuation he’d felt for Venus just weeks after they’d met, one that had gone largely unrequited as far as he was concerned. Or maybe it was the same at first, but it had turned into something far bigger and much stronger than anything he’d felt so far.

And Stan… Stan only really hid it from the actual words that came out of his mouth, never from his eyes, never from his gestures. If Roger had to guess, he’d say Stan probably promised himself, back when they first went out alone and he had every intention of making a move, but was met with the limits Roger had wisely put up, not to ever say a word or act on his feelings for as long as Roger didn’t, himself. It was admirable, especially considering how much time had passed since then and how he never attempted to curtail their proximity, even though it would only lead to a greater attraction down the line.

Roger had thought waiting was a good idea back then, but he eventually decided that finally doing something was an even better one.

That was why he invited Stan over for the first time after three years of partnership, as opposed to driving him home like he usually did after leaving the Zero Gravity. He saw Stan’s pupils blow out the way a predator’s would at the sight of an easy, unsuspecting prey. The sheer hunger in them made Roger weak, as if he had copious amounts of alcohol in his system and couldn’t even stand on his feet. All of a sudden Stan was enveloped by an electricity that Roger could feel just by being next to him, and that made the hair all over his body stand on end under a static-like effect.

Everything he tried to say died in the back of his unreasonably dry throat as he drove them back to his apartment. It all felt forced, a silly effort at dealing with a tension that could not be dealt with words. Stan looked way more comfortable in the silence, but then again he always did. Roger wondered, not for the first or second time, whether he had another side to him that Roger could lure out of the depths of his core. He was about to find out and didn’t remember ever feeling that nervous about something. Scary aliens, potent guns, dangerous situations, nothing beat that. His hands were going to leave an imprint on the wheel at that rate, with how he gripped it.

His knuckles were indeed a bit sore and his palms clammy when he pulled into his parking space. Stan had a shrewd smile on his lips that Roger caught a glimpse of after they climbed out of the car. Did he look as freaked out as he thought he did? Was that why Stan was smiling like that?

It was precisely that.

“Why are you so freaked out?” Stan asked him as soon as they reached the privacy of Roger’s apartment, before Roger even turned to him again after locking the door and flicking on the light switch on the corridor to his living room. He sounded every bit as amused as that smile that he couldn’t wipe off his face had had Roger believe.

He took a deep breath, ran his hand through his thick, wavy brown hair that curled at the ends, especially at his nape.

“First times,” he admitted, and even hearing himself say it made his heart rattle inside his ribcage, like an angry, restless lion.

Stan hummed appreciatively, regarding Roger with such sultry eyes that he almost feared what would come next. It was weird that he knew Stan so well, yet he could never really tell his next moves, never really knew what to expect, only that whatever he would do, he’d do it with confidence, with cool. Could he really call that ‘stability’? Had Roger been reading him wrong this entire time?

“You made me wait a long time, Roger,” he said and it was more than a simple remark; it beared some resentment that, again, Roger didn’t see coming.

“You were very young,” Roger said in his defense. “It wouldn’t have been… right. Or as good as it’s probably going to be now.”

The angry lion was now Stan. In a flurry of movement, his back hit the nearest wall and his hands were pinned above his head, Stan’s hot, shallow breathing all over his face as he examined his catch. Roger’s head spun and he had to shut his eyes tightly for a moment to ground himself.

“It’s going to be good, god, it’s going to be good,” Stan hissed, in _French_ , and Roger’s hands automatically balled into fists. That had to be a calculated move to drive him crazy. If he ever doubted that Stan saw the way his French speaking affected him, that doubt was no more.

Despite the claim, Stan seemed intent on playing some kind of resistance game with him before taking the first bite, and suddenly Roger felt as though he was the one having his wild side provoked instead. He could absolutely not play that game, however, grunting impatiently as Stan kept his lips just far enough away from his, grinning, and grinning even wider as Roger rolled his hips up in an attempt to make him finally cede.

“Is this what we waited so long for?” He asked in fluent French too, with not the slightest effort to hide his annoyance.

“Doesn’t feel very good, does it? To want something so much and not have it?”

But then the pressure around Roger’s wrists gave out, and what followed was another flurry of movements in which Roger grabbed Stan’s face and kissed him hard, the move still not enough to disperse that cheeky grin that was almost infuriating, but also hot in a way Roger couldn’t explain. Perhaps it was the fact that it was all on purpose to bring out his animalistic side, and that Stan _wanted_ to be the subject of his desire, wanted Roger to lose himself and his mind in him, _because_ of him.

Roger flipped them over, body flush against Stan’s, hands finally moving down from their vicious grip around Stan’s head to then stop at his waist, and not long after that, his hips. Stan made sure his appreciation was known and felt, groaning into the kiss and grinding up into Roger.

The light fabric of their dress pants did very little to conceal their erections, and Roger had to break the kiss just so he could concentrate on that absolutely _dirty_ feeling for a moment. There was just something about having another man’s hardness pressed against him, nothing short of maddening, and suddenly he needed to feel it in more than just that way, and he needed it badly.

Stan saw that pause exactly for what it was, unceremoniously grabbing Roger’s ass to pull him harder against him, rolling his hips up again and gritting his teeth at the way Roger keened, the older man’s eyes closing, jaw going slack.

“You want this so bad, don’t you?” Stan kept pushing his buttons, in that delicious French that sounded like pure sin. It just went so well with his melodic voice.

Stan would probably laugh at him if he knew that his mouth was salivating with how much he wanted to taste his cock. Roger just swallowed and nodded, and it seemed to suffice.

“Take me to your room and you can have it.”

The mention of his room brought Roger’s spatial awareness back, everything around them slowly materializing back into reality, like a high-end graphics game on a poor, low-end machine. The awfully loud buzzing in his head went away and only Stan’s breathing remained, not a calming sound by any means though, especially when it made Roger imagine hearing it right into his ear as he fucked him, which was something Roger wanted to be doing very, very soon.

He took a step back from Stan’s body and couldn’t wait to be pressed against it again.

“It’s this way,” Roger motioned with his head, and Stan peeled himself off the wall, staring rather defiantly right into his eyes until he walked past Roger to go where indicated. Roger had seen that look so many times before, it was part of Stan’s persona as much as the meekness of his voice and his eagle-like focus. It wasn’t even the first time he was on the receiving end of it, but context made all the difference in how it made Roger feel: now, it felt like being under the lion’s watch, like the slightest move would have him pounced onto again, mauled, devoured.

Not a bad feeling, honestly.

Living in a very compact bachelor’s apartment paid off, as all Stan had to do was turn a corner at the end of the small corridor to find his bedroom. There were no walls separating it from the living area, and only a half one between that and the kitchen. It was all nicely decorated, the tidiness a characteristic of Roger’s personality, but also an indication of how little time he spent there. There was a lot of black and a lot of white, all of it contrasting in a nice way with the light line wood floor. Roger had made sure not to have that sterile white flooring in his place too, in order not to make it an extension of the headquarters that he already saw so much of every single day.

Now that they’d gotten over that initial frenzy of finally being in each other’s arms, Roger thought he could take things a little bit slower, without almost coming in his pants from all the grinding and humping and pulling and kissing. When Stan turned to face him in front of his spacious bed, he felt like taking his time, and even though Stan never toned down the intensity of his gaze, Roger could tell he wanted the same.

He reached for the collars of Stan’s already open jacket and slid it off his shoulders, thoughtlessly tossing it aside and busying himself with his tie next. Stan stepped closer, hands back on Roger’s narrow hips, face mere inches apart from his again. Roger’s hands immediately became uncoordinated as a result of the renewed proximity. Stan smiled, noticing it right away that he started fumbling with the tie knot, suddenly unable to undo it.

“Distracted?” He whispered, making it all the more difficult for Roger to concentrate. “You want my mouth? You want to kiss me?”

“Shut up,” he replied, no intimidating value to his words whatsoever. Stan loved it, if his unreserved grin was anything to go by.

“My lips are right here. Take them,” he continued teasing. Roger made a mental note to drown him in a bruising kiss later, but now he absolutely needed to get him out of his clothes. Stan quieted down, watching Roger’s face as he pulled his tie off at last, fingers starting on the buttons of his shirt and miraculously having a lot less trouble with those. Removing the shirt revealed the toned upper body that Roger had long since started coveting.

There would be time for admiring it later too, after Roger got rid of his own clothes to be able to feel Stan’s skin on his. And Stan definitely approved of the idea, his eyes leaving Roger’s mouth for the first time to stare at his body while Roger removed his jacket, tie and shirt. He ran his hands up Roger’s stomach and chest, seeming to revel in the feel of the hair covering them, of which he had very little himself. Perhaps that particular difference between their bodies was one of the things Stan found most appealing; it would explain the way he sought Roger’s mouth himself this time, hands glued to his chest while Roger explored his sides, his strong arms, and his smooth back.

Roger couldn’t help feeling vain that Stan appreciated his hairy torso, although unlike his partner, he felt no need to vocalize that feeling. Instead, he showed his own appreciation by winding one hand into his short hair, using it to guide Stan’s head until they found the perfect angle again, the one that allowed for them to take the kiss to that next level that made their hearts leap, their erections throb, and their heads spin with a particularly languid stroke of tongues. Stan drew his mouth away for a throaty moan and Roger used the opportunity to pull his head back, exposing his neck to his still hungry lips. Stan clawed at him. Roger bit him. And Stan bucked his hips up into Roger’s letting out one of the most immoral sounds he’d ever heard.

Roger knew exactly how to get more of those.

He used his body to lead Stan backwards onto the bed, laying him down gently when the back of his knees hit the edge, but remaining on his feet to get a good look at his gorgeous body. Stan looked back wantonly, chest heaving, the bulge in his pants as inviting as ever. That was Roger’s target. His eyes stayed fixed on Stan’s, but his hands found the buckle of his belt and started undoing them, his urgency creating no obstacles. He proceeded to open his pants and pull them down Stan’s hips along with his underwear, and only then did Roger look down.

Stan reached for his cock and gave it a couple strokes, as though demonstrating what Roger should do with it. Roger had a different idea though, his mouth watering again as he replaced Stan’s hand with his own. He didn’t know where this craving had come from, because for sure he’d never wanted to suck anyone’s cock that badly before, but at the same time Roger didn’t mind it. Stan’s was pretty, average length-wise but thick and pale. Now he just needed to know what it tasted like.

Holding the base, Roger dove in, the buds in his tongue instantly assaulted by a tangy taste that only made him more curious. Stan purred and squirmed as Roger cautiously tested out his gag reflex, swallowing as much of him as was comfortable. Eventually he was able to cover more than half, finding a good rhythm that was all hunger and no technique, the taste now neutral, if not a bit saltier at the tip, as he coated the length in saliva. Stan panted loudly, back arching at the caresses of Roger’s tongue and the tightness of his lips around his cock.

“Roger…” he called, and Roger just loved hearing his name in Stan’s heavy accent, made even heavier by the slight desperation tinging his voice. “Don’t make me come yet,” he pleaded, but it fell on deaf ears as Roger had other plans.

He slipped his free hand under Stan’s body to grab his round, soft ass, kneading one of the cheeks and sort of pulling it up toward him, all the while bobbing his head up and down, still holding the cock at the base and occasionally pumping it in tandem with his head movement.

Even without Stan’s gasps and moans, even without his body’s spasmodic quakes of pleasure, Roger knew he was doing a good job. The reward came soon enough when Stan began thrusting upward into his mouth seeking to quicken the pace, and those utterly obscene sounds Roger had wanted to hear so much more of filled the room again as he came throbbing in Roger’s mouth, the spurts hitting his tongue and giving Roger a whole new taste to explore and probably get used to. In all honesty, he found it a lot weirder and difficult to swallow, but he did anyway as he continued to lick stripes along Stan’s cock in a sort of soothing manner, helping him come down from his high.

Stan was still mewling and purring contentedly when Roger rose up to kiss his mouth, his orgasm torpor clear in the slow and sloppy way his tongue ran against Roger’s, really savoring the mix of tastes in there.

“I wanted to come with you inside me,” he told Roger in a mere whisper against his lips.

“You will. We’re not done.”

But Stan needed a bit of time until he was ready again, so Roger went to get them some water, even with the discomfort of walking around with a raging, and painful too by now, boner in his pants. After that, Stan got rid of the rest of his clothes and then helped Roger do the same, once again sat at the edge of the bed.

“I want to suck you off but I know if I start I won’t stop,” he said, looking up with his fingers clinging to the elastic waistband of Roger’s briefs. Roger chuckled because he knew the dilemma quite well now.

Once naked, he waited for Stan to lie properly on the bed and climbed on top of him, now with the intention to finally give his body the attention it deserved. Their hips touched first as Roger allowed himself some much needed skin contact for his cock, and then his mouth descended onto Stan’s neck with still the same eagerness from when they first kissed, wet lips sucking on wet skin. Stan’s hands landed on the small of his back as he hummed in enjoyment, encouraging more friction between their groins by pulling Roger down onto him.

Amazingly enough Roger was not in a hurry. He made fastidious work of exploring the skin beneath his lips and tongue, from the sensitive spot behind Stan’s ear to the junction of his collarbones, covering both sides while also resisting the urge to mark him. As he started traveling south, not before giving his shoulders the same treatment, Roger noticed him start to get hard again, and to his surprise he was hit with almost the same craving to have him in his mouth. He would not have pegged himself as that much of a cocksucker, but apparently that was exactly what he was, at least when it came to Stan.

His journey down continued uninterrupted though, Stan’s hands roving through his back, massaging his shoulder blades at the same time as Roger kissed and nibbled at his chest and nipples, making Stan arc into the feel. Roger could not be more pleased, hands slipping beneath his arcing body to bring him closer yet, face buried into his skin like into a bowl of delicious fruit punch that he lapped at thirstily. Using his knees bracketing Stan’s thighs as leverage, Roger went on lower and lower, his partner once again a writhing mess underneath him, a sight that made his body shake with want. He did end up using his mouth again to bring Stan’s cock to full hardness, but made a point not to linger there too much, as he had something else he still needed to do to him that night.

Roger left the bed under Stan’s watchful eyes to go fetch a condom in the bathroom adjoining the room. When he came back, he spread Stan’s powerful thighs apart before crawling in between them, knees almost touching the back end of his ass. Stan looked expectant, and Roger’s pulse picked up as he opened the little square pack. The condom was practically swimming in lube inside it, and Roger almost dropped it as he tried to pinch it between his fingers. Both his hands got coated in the slippery liquid as he slid it down his cock, and he used one of them to smear lube all over Stan’s entrance, observing his reaction as he effortlessly inserted one finger in him. Stan bit his lower lip and threw his head back, eyes fluttering close and a stifled moan escaping him. Roger kept at it with his finger in and out of him, licking his lips in response to the delicious convulsing of Stan’s tight body. He was desperate to finally be inside him, make him completely his.

He could only torture them both for so long.

Roger hiked Stan’s hips up onto his thighs and bent forward, propping himself on one arm next to Stan’s shoulder. His other hand guided his cock in the direction of his opening, running it up and down his cleft until he felt that dimple that he pressed onto. Stan’s breath hitched and he grunted, bracing himself for the pain with his hands grabbing fistfuls of the sheets underneath their bodies. Roger was very careful though, just barely moving, probably less than an inch at a time at least until half the head was in. Then he stopped, letting out a long shaky sigh, waiting for the flashes of pain to leave Stan’s features completely before he tried for more. The pressure was already mind-blowing, and Roger knew it would take every last drop of his self-control not to come as soon as he was fully inside.

He was right. Stan started relaxing, accepting the intrusion with a lot more ease, and Roger was able to fit all of himself in him with some more pushing. It was his turn to grip the sheets, panting as though they’d been fucking for hours. Stan reached up with one arm, running his fingers along Roger’s jawline and then inserting his thumb into his mouth. Roger met his eyes with something akin to fury as he sucked on the thumb, making Stan grit his teeth again, upper lip twitching ferociously.

Roger’s oral fixation became more obvious by the second as he began moving while happily sucking on Stan’s thumb, groans erupting from the back of his throat. Stan started stroking himself with his free hand, curiously not making much noise, seemingly so he could hear Roger instead. And Roger did not hold back, opening his mouth at some point and lolling his head back as his hips continued to work, letting out sounds to rival the ones he’d heard from Stan earlier.

“You’re so pretty, Roger,” Stan said, still holding his face with one hand and pumping himself with the other. “So pretty fucking me.”

Roger thrust harder in response, goosebumps covering his skin, so light headed he actually feared fainting. Stan finally reacted louder, back contorting, free arm falling limp at his side while the other continued to work furiously on himself. The reaction caught Roger’s attention and he decided to try again for the same angle that elicited it.

“Roger…” Stan called out breathlessly, eyes tight shut. A drop of sweat fell from the tip of Roger’s nose onto his heaving chest, and Roger wished so much he could lick it all while moving inside him.

What he could do was bend even further to kiss Stan’s slack mouth, and as soon as he did it Stan let go of his cock to bury all his fingers into Roger’s damp hair, pulling tight, barely allowing him to move his head while devouring his mouth. Roger gasped into the kiss, heart stopping for at least a couple seconds as he found himself desperately close so much sooner than he’d have liked.

“I need you to come,” he said with his lips still caught in Stan’s vicious kiss. Stan understood the urgency of the request, so he took the same hand to his cock again and stroked firmly.

“Look at me, Roger,” Stan asked in turn, their breaths mingling together, coming out in hot puffs from their mouths. Roger opened his eyes and something snapped in him. “God,” he cried, managing to keep his own eyes open only a couple more seconds before orgasm took his body by storm a second time that night.

And Roger was not prepared to feel the force of that phenomenon on his cock as it hit Stan. The pressure prevented him from moving while Stan’s body shook from the inside out, his come hitting them both in their stomachs, although much less than what Roger had swallowed earlier. He found Stan’s mouth again, tongues playing outside to coax his own climax out of him. One last push and he was spilling all of himself into that condom, into Stan.

His eyes remained closed for the seconds that followed, the energy left in his body just enough to keep him from collapsing on top of Stan, his cock still twitching inside him in the aftermath of his orgasm. Stan slid off his lap and sat up on the bed without moving from below Roger’s body, kissing him tenderly on the corner of his parted lips. Roger turned his head to find his mouth and they kissed slowly, Stan allowing him to regain his breath.

The physical exertion had nothing to do with why his heart was pounding though. He was so in love with Stan. He was so in love with everything about him. In three years he’d never been as sure of it as he was now. Roger now knew it was fear of that very realization that had kept him from doing this sooner, but it was done now. Consummated. Wonderfully so.

He was smiling when he opened his eyes, and Stan was too.

He was in awe of this new reality. The rules didn’t apply to this one, because this was his own universe.

Stan was his own universe and he could be as in love with it as he wanted. And Roger was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for taking a long time to update. I'm still recovering from one of the worst year endings/beginnings ever. I still have every intention to continue writing this till the end, and only being physically unable to do so will stop me. That said, it could happen. Until then, even if it takes long, you can expect updates.
> 
> Thanks so much for your patience and for reading :)


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